Family Ties
by nnaa
Summary: All Alex Rider has ever wanted is to be left alone and meet the family he never had. However, to escape the grasp of MI6 he really will have to face up to his family ties ... and a long buried secret that will change his life forever...
1. Part 1: A Solution

_**Everything Alex Rider-y belongs to Anthony Horowitz (jealous) but we love him for it :)**_

**_Only One Way Out_**

Jack looked to the wall clock again: 9:30. Alex wasn't late as much- Hell, he didn't even have a curfew. So she wasn't worried. Nope, not worried at all. After all, he was a big kid now, and God knows he'd handled more than she would ever have to. Or know about, thankfully. Some things you just don't want to know. _But ten more minutes and I'm calling the Royal and General- _the door slammed softly from the hall and Jack heard the '_ching' _of keys hitting the decorative bowl by the front door. Then the thump of a schoolbag on the floor and footsteps on the stair carpet.

"Hey- Alex!" Jack shuffled into the hall in garish fluffy rabbit slippers (with some difficulty) to face the teen. Alex looked at her through tired eyes from the staircase. "Aren't you gonna say hi at least?" A pause.

"Hi." He said. Jack pouted, she wasn't used to Alex being so withdrawn, and his behaviour had been so different the past fortnight. Something was definitely up.

"Ya gonna tell me where you've been, chuck?" She ventured, leaning forward in her pink sleepers as if she were peering at an animal in a cage. "You haven't got a girlfriend, have you?" she said with a knowing smile, hoping that's what all the mood swings were down to. Teenagers, huh! Who needed them?

Alex shrugged in his uniform, his face a perfect picture of 'miserable'. "I've been out. With no-one in particular." He shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "I just needed some headspace after school, so I went for a walk" This seemed quite reasonable to Jack, and almost honest, too, but he didn't seem in the mood to be scrutinized. "Okay?"

"Hm." She didn't believe it, of course. _And he knows this. What's he hiding exactly? Maybe I **should** call The Bank... _"Do you want a cheese sandwich or something? You haven't had your tea yet!" she called after him after he crept up the stairs, and was rewarded with a muffled "No thanks" from upstairs.

Jack sighed, kicked the schoolbag into a corner where it wouldn't be tripped over and collapsed into the settee, feeling moody with a dash of rejection. Were all teenage boys this awkward and withdrawn? _If this is just puberty, it's come on pretty bloody quick. Besides, I've lived with him for seven years and he's never been like this. This is MI6 stuff. I bet it's finally taken its toll on him._ She thought of the Special Operatives within the Royal and General Bank. Would they have their own psychiatrists? She nibbled a fingernail thoughtfully- she could phone them in the morning, and book an appointment for tomorrow- one more day of missed school really wouldn't affect Alex's grades much at this point-and hopefully get this all sorted out by the weekend.

"_Boys_!"She exasperated, and turned the TV to the comedy channel.

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Jack really wasn't a morning person. She wasn't a cooking kind of person, either, which was why she was nuking her bowl of instant porridge in the microwave when Alex slunk down the stairs, fully dressed. "Want some breakfast, Alex?" Jack asked, still in her pyjamas and notorious slippers. She took in Alex's attire and arched an eyebrow. _I'll be damned if he gets away again!_ "Going somewhere?"

Alex shuffled past her to retrieve his jacket from the cupboard. "I was thinking of catching a movie or something," he murmured, avoiding Jack's eye. "Maybe Tom wants to see that new Quentin Tarantino ..."

"Oh, um, well, the thing is, Alex, we, uh, have an appointment."

"Appointment?"

"With MI6."

Alex stopped short, one arm in his jacket. He was momentarily speechless. "But we had an agreement. They promised me they wouldn't bother me for at least two months!"

"I know, but the thing is...I asked them to see us. Well, you." She looked up bashfully. _Maybe I went a bit far...?_ Alex's stare burned into her and she was suddenly on the defence. "Look, you need to see someone, Alex- you've been-"

"What the Hell, Jack?" His voice was shaking and when she tried to put her hand on his shoulder, he knocked it back. "How dare you? Since when did you want me to become more involved with MI6?"

"I want you to see a _psychiatrist_!" She reasoned, porridge forgotten and slowly melting in the microwave.

"Jesus, Jack, you really are something else. So now I'm crazy!?" He stormed past her into the hall, and reached for his keys to unlock the front door.

"No, Alex, listen, sometimes we just need to talk to someone who knows how to deal with these things- you've been through a lot, and you need to express yourself properly!" _Or something...psychiatry really isn't my bag._ "You're not crazy, you just need someone to listen sometimes, you know?" Jack laid the sisterly-love tone on thick, but it had no effect.

"We'll you're obviously incapable of listening to me, because I'm not going. Seriously, I thought you knew me better than that, Jack. Thanks for nothing."

The door slammed and Jack was stunned, unable to move. Never- Alex had _never_ talked to her like that. He'd freaked out so much when she mentioned the psychiatrist; since when did he have a problem with shrinks? But she thought it had more to do with MI6 than anything. But Jack had caught a last glimpse of her best friend as the door slammed: regret, and shame, and something made sense, but not a lot of it. _He wants to stay away from MI6 desperately right now- that's why he bit my arm off. But it's to help him, they're not going to enlist him- they agreed on two months breathing space...so what is he hiding? _Jack sighed- just what was going on in that boy's head?

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"Oh, hello, Jack. I was under the impression Alex would be with you. Is there something _you_ want to talk to us about?" Mrs. Jones, and MI6. There hadn't been many opportunities to visit the headquarters of MI6, and Jack was thankful; the place freaked her out. A shrink from the medical team had joined them, expecting to interview the elusive Alex Rider, only to be faced with a frantic American woman.

"Yes, there is something I want to discuss. And it's Alex." Mrs Jones kept her face impassive, but reached into her handbag for a peppermint. A nervous habit?

"But when is it not about Alex? Why isn't he here today? We booked Riley especially- he's the Chief Psychiatrist at St George's hospital..." The shrink- Riley- nodded nervously in his ill-fitting suit and Jack wondered if he'd ever dealt with MI6 before.

"Let's just say Alex wasn't all too thrilled at the concept of coming back...here" She was going to say 'back to work', but didn't want to think that saving the world was Alex's job. The deputy head of MI6 looked up thoughtfully, then back at Jack.

"You did remind him that we've agreed to give him some room for a while?"

"Of course," Jack replied sourly. She didn't much like the "for a while".

"Has he been his usual self lately?" Mrs Jones, perched on the desk edge, opted to sit behind it in her office chair, making Jack feel suddenly under scrutiny. _Does Alex feel like this everything time he comes here? No wonder he doesn't like it. Well, besides the life-threatening situations they put him in..._

"Yes," Jack breathed, relieved to be telling someone her worries, even if Alex wouldn't be too happy about it. "He's been so reclusive, he comes home from school and I don't see him all night because he's stuck up in his room. That's not like him at all."

"It could be psychological," She waved a hand meaningfully at Dr Riley. "In which case, I really want to get him in to see us."

Jack shook her head. "I don't think that's all there is, though. He's not eating and I don't think he's sleeping well- he won't speak a word to me anymore that isn't avoiding my question."

"This has been going on for a while? That would suggest mental deterioration over a long period. " Riley ventured, glad to add his two cents. MI6! That would mean promotion, surely?

"No, quite recently- we were fine last weekend, and before that. It's been like living with a different person this past week." Jack said and Riley deflated.

"Have any other behavioural patterns changed?" Mrs Jones seemed deeply concerned now, but Jack wondered if she was just weighing up Alex's future use. Did she have problems with her own children?

"I suppose he's been going out an awful lot lately- I mean not with friends or anything , just...out. I don't know where, he won't tell me, or else he just lies."

"Drugs?" Riley dipped his ore again and Mrs Jones had the decency to look offended on Alex's behalf.

"You obviously don't know him, Doctor," She said coolly, dismissing him to look Jack square in the face. "Do you think he's been meeting with anyone?"

Jack balked. "I...I don't know, he could be. But...who would be meeting him that he had to hide it from us?" Mrs Jones though, before taking out a desk phone from the bottom drawer.

"We haven't had Alex tailed since the whole Scorpia business, but desperate times...Grey?"

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Alex was nervous. The confrontation with Jack that morning had shaken him. How stupid he'd been! Of course she would notice all the little changes in his behaviour, and that made him feel a rush of affection towards her, something like brotherly love. He was sorry to worry her, but at least he wasn't on drugs or anything. Yet, which was quite ironic. He just hoped she would forgive him after everything blew over. He was doing the right thing- wasn't he?

The bus slowed, and he pushed the bell to disembark. He knew the way to the meeting point, although it had changed the last three times he'd spoken with _him_. It wouldn't be long before MI6 were taking a closer look at how he spent his time- had Jack gone to the appointment she'd made alone, or rescheduled? If she'd gone, Alex could have a tail sooner than anticipated. _I'd better hurry._

Sooner than he was comfortable with, Alex had arrived: the painted sign declared the cafe to be Old Jack's. Alex mentally chuckled. He was sure Miss Starbright would be _flattered._

And there he was. The man drank something that looked like beer form a tall glass in the shade of the umbrella outside. The other customers paid no attention to them. A coke was placed in the only empty seat at the man's table. Alex sat down, and took a sip. The coke would not be poisoned. Alex trusted the man fiercely. He trusted him with his life. He had many times.

"You're here," the stranger said simply, his voice strong with relief.

"I am." Alex felt himself shake with nervousness and –adrenaline?

"You must know that there is no going back after this, Alex. This is the end...of one life. You have to be sure wholly and completely about your decision. I was bound by the same shackles as you, and I know how it feels.

"What about Jack?" Alex had tried not to think about what would happen to Jack- her Visa was permanent, but would the house revert automatically to her ownership if the last legal owner died?

"MI6 will lose interest in Jack once she's disassociated with you. Why would they keep watching her after you're gone? In time it'll be safe for me to make contact with her."

"Isn't there another way? I hate to have to do this to her," Alex truly felt wretched, for Jack, and for himself.

"We're bound by the same shackles, champ. Don't waste twenty- odd years like I did. Take this chance now," And the man in the shade slipped a tiny plastic packet under the Formica table. Alex took it, and weighed it in his hand.

"Pills?" Both were a pinky red, and slightly bigger than a sesame seed.

"One now, and one in three hours' time."

"And you're sure about this?" Alex didn't relish any kind of substance abuse; it was a mantra Ian had drilled into him from an early age: drugs are bad.

"The question is, are you? Remember, Jack will be able to join us if a few months' time, maybe a year." Alex thought hard. Was it fair to be dead to Jack for months before magically whisking her away to God- knows-where? Alex could imagine it now- "Oh, hey Jack, looks like I'm not dead after all! How've you been?" _Well, I wouldn't be the first person to do that._

"Cheers, Ian."

Ian lifted his own glass.

Alex threw back his miniscule pill.

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Jonathan Grey, MI6 operative and- aha- international superspy of sorts. So why was he stuck trailing some fourteen year old kid? And what were Special Operations doing with said fourteen year old boy? They'd certainly skimmed over those details in his brief. As far as he could tell, this was a regular, run-of-the-mill assignment for the day. He knew that the boy had been targeted by both Scorpia and Snakehead at one point, but there was only him, Jonathan, keeping tabs on Alex Rider today, so the threat to him obviously wasn't high or Alex would probably be on house arrest or something. So what the hell was going on?

The operative lit a cigarette under the bus shelter, watching the teenager across the street board the bus. If he remembered correctly, the bus stopped shortly before the Rider house and he assumed he would take it all the way there. Grey followed in a black cab- God bless the anonymity of London's black cabs- and told the driver to stick to the bus route. The driver didn't care- that route was longer and he'd get a bigger fare. Which Jonathan would be claiming back as business expenses if he had anything to say about it.

He was disappointed he could only follow the boy back home- he'd only gotten his brief ten minutes ago directly from the Deputy head of Special Operations and Alex was already making him way home- he would have liked something interesting to put in his report. As it was, that would turn out to be very shallow indeed: Got on the bus, got off the bus, went home.

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Jack took her time getting home; Mrs Jones had reassured her that they would get the bottom of Alex's strange behaviour and meetings with this anonymous person, and for once Jack felt as if she could trust her. Even if she was only securing Alex to use again in the future- no one wants a dead operative. There was no need to use her keys- the door was unlocked and she threw them in the bowl, as usual. They met with a louder _chink_ than she expected and saw the other set were already in the bowl. "Alex?"

_Maybe he's changed his mind. I can still make another appointment for him...at least it was save someone traipsing around after him all over London if he just tells us what's wrong._

Jack didn't find Alex downstairs, so she went to search the sanctuary that was his room. Alex's room overlooked the front of the house, and the late afternoon sunlight streamed in through the open windows. The stereo gave out a quiet but catchy track- was that Foo Fighters? Megan Fox glared though heavy lashes from the poster behind his desk, perfect legs, perfect face, and the picture of health. Alex, however, was far from it. Alex was slumped on the floor by his bed, partially propped against the wall, eyes closed.

Jack didnt move; some primal urge kept her locked in her place and whispered to her: _He's hurt, something's hurt him, it's not safe here! "A-Alex?"_ Disembodied, she moved over to him, feeling as if someone was controlling her limbs to make her move. _This isn't real. This isn't happening. Alex isn't dead._

Tenderly, she reached out to touch him face, which hung limply forward. It was cold.

Jack screamed.

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Woooah I always write the depressing ones ^^'

I'm so excited for Crocodile Tears, I had to write something to occupy the countdown XD

So what do you guys think? Poor Jack, right? :D I didn't mean for her to play such a big part at first, but there ya go XD

_In the next part: _**Less Jack, probebly. Moar Ian? :D More of K team possibly, and my favourite bit takes part in the morgue...:3**

**Please R&R to get that next part churned out faster if you liked it! :)**


	2. Part 2: A Method

_**Everything Alex Rider-y belongs to Anthony Horowitz (jealous) but we love him for it :)**_

**_Only One Way Out: Part 2_**

It was cold. That was what he remembered. So cold and dark, that he thought his heart might freeze up and fall out. His chest felt constricted and Alex wondered if someone was sitting on him- it certainly felt like it. And couldn't they give him a blanket or something? Where was he? He thought back to the Skeleton Key business, when Conrad had drugged him and it felt wretchedly similar – unable to move, and completely utterly helpless. Except this time he couldn't even lift his head, to see or speak or plead. _I asked for this- Ian told me what it would be like..._ But it was very different to experience it for himself. His head was swimming, and the sensation of movement washed through him; Alex so badly wanted to see what was happening, and he felt sick. What would happen if he was sick? Would he choke on his vomit and actually die?

Suddenly he wasn't sure. There had to be another way to do this, but it was far too late for him to do anything now. Now they were processing his 'death'. In about half an hour at the most, he estimated, he would be pronounced dead and...he would be free?

Alex wanted to see Ian again, fiercely. He was the missing piece that MI6 had stolen away from him. Now it was time to fight back. He focused.

He knew he'd lost consciousness at one point- the second pill he'd taken in his room had a delay of about two minutes- the worst minutes of life-before they took painful effect. He'd passed out. Pain like electricity had crashed through him, one brilliant wave after another until his muscles surrendered themselves and he collapsed. And after that... nothing. Blissful oblivion and blackness.

Now hands prodded him, his stomach muscles, the line of his jaw and the area around his chest scar. A hand- shod in latex- pulled up an eyelid. His muscles were paralyzed.

The iris of the human eye is also a muscle, and it contracts the pupil to minimize damage from bright lights. Suddenly he was shot through with an explosion of brilliant pain of the mortuary lights, far fiercer than when he'd been shot by Scorpia, and nothing like the 'suicide' pill.

_I'm blind, I'm going to go blind!_ Then the hand dropped the eyelid (the pathologist would note that Alex's eyes were extremely dilated) and was passed a scalpel from his assistant. Alex heard the _chink_ as it was picked up and handed over. He knew what would happen now; he'd researched it thoroughly himself.

A post- mortem or autopsy is carried out on someone who has died suddenly, or where the cause of death was unknown. Really, there was never a chance that MI6 wouldn't request one. Luckily, the first day is taken to try to establish cause of death through external methods- if a reason could not be identified, they would examine his heart, brain and circulatory system. Which Alex really, _really_ wasn't looking forward to. _At least they haven't noticed I'm breathing again; I can barely feel it myself. _He was euphoric, half conscious and toeing the thinner-still line between the living and dead, but through his stupor he'd never felt so naked or vulnerable.

"Okay, be careful with this one, or He'll get really pissed," A faceless voice murmured.

"Who?" This came from somewhere behind Alex's head.

"The Chief of Pathology... if we get this wrong, the whole department will take a budget cut. Least to say, we'll be out of a job. "

"...Shit. Who the hell is this?"

"I don't even know. And I don't think we're supposed to. Just get that blood and tissue sample done and we'll put him in to chill."

"Okay. Poor kid."

Through the swimming sensation in his head, Alex found he was starting to gather his senses back- like pieces of himself fitting together again like a broken vase. He could hear faint music, modern and low- was that Amy Winehouse? The blooms behind his eyes hasn't ceased. He could smell the harsh chemicals around him and the familiar latex gloves. And something else? Ah. Blood.

The assistant attending Alex was indeed taking a blood sample, and that was what Alex could smell. _At least it isn't hurting ._

And then the real kicker:_ I wonder how long for?_

They took the tissue sample next.

* * *

The world had moved on, but so had the Royal and General. The recession had left it with less traffic through its doors, but only the doors you were supposed to watch. Other ventures of the bank had never been more alive. And the 'bank' was very much alive now.

Jonothan Grey sighed heavily, muscular flanks relaxing into the carefully-uncomfortable waiting room sofa. He wanted a cigarette. _Needed_ a cigarette. Everything had been left at the front desk- it was easier to show up completely clean in the lift, where he knew he would be scanned by thermal X-ray for anything metallic or threatening. _Like a damned lighter... _

The receptionist looked up, annoyed, and he stopped beating his heel against the marble floor.

"Mrs Jones will see you now." She might have been friendlier to Julia Rothman than she was to him. Not that he knew much of Scorpia- it wasn't like he and Alan Blunt were bosom buddies- Hell, he was just a bottom feeder and MI6 guarded its secrets jealously. But he knew enough about what happened to Mrs Rothman. And who was involved.

Clicking his tongue in what he hoped was an annoying way; he slung the shoulder strap of his bag over his head and slouched over to the lifts. She watched him through narrowed eyes, definitely not his type, apparently. As the doors closed on him, he winked and she recoiled, repulsed, back to the many computer monitors.

_Urgh, why does all the shit get handed to me?_ It had been a full day since he'd had to follow his mark- almost to the hour, if he went by his watch and he was utterly exhausted. It wasn't his fault! He'd done what he's been told, and the kid had done nothing to raise suspicion before he got on the scene. In fact, he was already on his way home from God- knows- where when he'd been given his brief. After he'd gone in the house, Alex has stayed there all night like the good kid he was supposed to and that was it! Job done, nothing bad to report! _Oh wait, he killed himself._

Jonothan found himself inside the office of the MI6 Deputy Head's office again sooner than he'd have liked. _It should have been such an easy report._ He had made two reports to his superiors so far- each time going through the details with a fine-tooth comb.

He was greeted with the cold stare that only women of a certain age can master. He wanted to ask if every woman in this building was on their period or something, because he _did not deserve_ to be treated like this- but he didn't. There was something deeper in her look; she wasn't looking to blame, but hoping for some undisclosed explanation.

Her desk was neater than he would have liked himself, towers of paper restricted in their 'In' and 'Out' trays. A black old-fashioned phone and slim, modern computer monitor faced away from him. There was a plotted plant in the corner.

"Sit down, Grey." He sat, and observed that she looked tired. "I'll keep it short. Obviously, we've went through your report, and we've gotten all we can from it, so we'll re-assign you soon. In the meantime, I want you to know that what you've learned in this case is of the highest security. I'm serious when I say that if this information is leaked in any way our retribution will be swift."

"I know that." There was a stone in his throat. He understood completely.

The MI6 has hired a teenager- something unheard of, totally illegal and was never going to work. But it did. Somehow this Rider kid had made it work (it must have been in the genes or something- Grey had heard that his father was Hunter- _the_ Hunter!) and he was incredibly effective. So of course enemies of the British Secret Intelligence Service had known about him too. After all, he'd blown them up, crushed them and even sent them through aeroplane engines. Disgusting, but effective.

This also meant if Mr Rider suddenly died, MI6 were suddenly left without an ace, open to retaliation. 'Cause, it doesn't help that the idiot killed himself. _There was a hefty price on that head of his... _

She blinked and softened a little, shuffling through her papers and quickly pulling one out.

"Take this down to Smither's department with you, and he'll get you sorted out." She glanced at the monitor as he stood to take the paper. He was glad to leave, but her suddenly alarmingly frozen expression held him somewhere between sitting and standing.

"And you're sure you've told us everything?"

He nodded, eyes serious.

"Only, the body's mysteriously disappeared."

* * *

He stopped at the end of the street. He'd been here many times before, but this was for a very different reason. Breath plumed out in front of him and he could feel the chill through his leather jacket- Autumn was well on the way. His hands itched as he wondered how Jack would receive him. Maybe now wasn't the right time ...

The man cocked his head as he saw the door of the Chelsea house open. Two stiff-looking women climbed from a parked car and Jack admitted them, her face grim and tight and looking past them to avoid their eyes. Instead, she saw him.

A shaky hand rose to stifle a cry and she started to move forward, before catching herself. She looked broken and confused in the doorway in her dressing-gown, and Wolf rushed forward.

"I'm s-sorry, you looked s-so much like I-Ian there..." A well-used hanky was conjured from her sleeve and administered to her eyes while Wolf pulled her to him. He wondered if he was welcome there- he'd been seeing Jack for about seven months now, much to Alex surprise when he found out about it. Not that he'd been adverse to it, mind. _He liked seeing Jack happy. I think he knew that even if we did end up getting married and moving out or something, he would have had to say goodbye when she was eventually deported._ And he and Jack were working. Wolf would die before anyone heard him use some cheesy 'soul mate' reference, or jigsaw metaphor, but, well, when he'd met Jack, they'd clicked. They _fitted_.

She also didn't have qualms about calling him 'Wolf'- it was his name now as much as his real one; his life in the forces since 18 had personified itself into the name. Anyway, it's better when only your parents call you 'Clive'.

Jack wordlessly sobbed into the leather jacket as he looked past the door into the house. The late afternoon light didn't reach this side of the house, and to him it looked like a cold, dank cave. Even the family portraits looked like twisted, sinister shadows.

"It's just so..." she managed finally as the convulsions quietened. Wolf saw people moving behind an upstairs window.

"I know. I know, babes. It's ... let's just go inside." She let herself be pulled gently into the house. He felt a chill as they passed into the threshold that had nothing to do with temperature. Wolf couldn't help recalling how he'd attacked Alex when they'd first been teamed together. There was a lot to remind him of Alex in this house, least of all Jack. A figure draped in white plastic crossed the landing, a heavy looking case in one hand.

"They still here?" He thought they'd gotten all of the evidence- not that there was much of it- yesterday and the body had already been removed for a post-mortem.

She sniffed heavily when she was perched at the breakfast bar. "They think they've found something strange- I-I dunno, something strange about what he took..." He saw that she'd calmed down quite a bit, but her voice had an empty echo to it he didn't like. It made her sound injured.

"I'll make us a coffee or something," He said wretchedly. Seriously, what did you say at a time like this? Jack stared past him into the window of the street outside. "Jack?"

"Yes please." He made up the coffee, taking care not to spill water over the open laptop on the counter.

"What's this?" The computer window was full of complicated forms, the kind only governments would inflict on people.

Jack woke up. "Oh... only some inquiries." Wolf waited.

"Um, what about?"

"My visa." She discarded the hanky, leaning her head against her folded arms on the counter instead. She was frowning.

_Uh-oh._ "Not thinking of jumping ship, are you? I think they'd want you to stick around for a bit...you know...with all the stuff going on right now."

"If I stay here any longer, I'm going to do something stupid, I just know it. I need to get out of here. Now. While I still have my head in one piece. I'm sure they can contact me in whatever country I go to."

"You think they'll let you? You're like...their closest witness or whatever. You saw him last, after all." He felt as bad as she looked, and she was hardly Princess Diana right now.

Wolf looked at her. She stared back.

"I have two tickets," She said.

"Where to?"

"France."

* * *

Alex woke up once again, having passed out on the slab again. _I hope I didn't snore, _he thought wildly, bright colours fleeting through his vision as he looked up into, what he could only describe with utmost disbelief and loathing, as the ceiling of a fridge.

_Oh my God. I'm in a mortuary. A fridge. I'm dead. I'm dead, I know it! Jesus!_ Eyes rolling, he tried to turn over onto his stomach, but the average mortuary freezer is not made to accommodate bodies that want to engage in a bit of light exercise. His shoulder bashed against the side and he yelled- at least he could feel pain, although he didn't do so with relish. He lashed out again, elbows flailing against the side and feet kicking wildly into empty air. Catching a breath, he Alex closed his eyes until his eyes stopped spinning again.

"Okay...one...two....one...two..." He murmured. He was certain about a number of things.

_I'm definitely not dead. I think. I don't know how long I've been in here, and I need to get out._ _I'm also_- he looked downwards-_ naked. That's definitely going to be a problem._

"Ouch." A neat square of skin had been peeled away from his stomach to reveal the sickly raw flesh underneath. "Glad I was out for that one. Okay." He took another breath and looked upwards, feeling the square of wall behind his head. There was no edge. He shuffled down towards his feet, still lying helplessly flat and more than aware of his nakedness. He felt the second panel with his toes, discovering the small edge of the refrigerator door. _One, Two..._

His feet collided weakly against the panel, but it was enough to force the loose locking mechanism. Now he needed to get out.

What this resulted in was a complication of shuffles and squirms as he manipulated his way out of the coffin-shaped space, feet first. He was certain he would give anyone that discovered him a heart attack anyway- how many times does a refrigerator give birth to a fourteen year old?

_Next: clothes_. Being in a warmer climate of the surgical – like room had made him horribly aware of his dangerously low core temperature. His hands shook madly and his fingernails were blue. _Preferably, quickly. _Gripping the side of the refrigeration unit- for it was indeed cool storage for bodies (Alex tried not to think too much about that) – he hoisted himself onto equally shaky feet.

The theatre was huge. It was obviously new, as everything gleamed. It stank of some sickly cleaning fluid that made Alex gag.

_Sinks on one side and...a-ha._

Opposite the fridges was a large partition through the centre of the room. It was made of a waist- high wall, and glass panelling on top. Beyond that were the surgical tables Alex was only too well acquainted with. He hobbled past those, using the partition to manipulate himself through the room.

_So cold, so cold, don't have much time!_ He gripped the first table defiantly. They were spotless now, so he couldn't tell which one he'd occupied not so long ago. That didn't concern him.

"Aha!" Two doors. One, presumable the exit and the other: "Scrubs and gloves must be worn at all time," He read aloud off the left cupboard door, and lurched forwards.

He was lucky. Upon opening the doors to the outside corridor, fifteen long minutes later, he happened upon a graveyard of all things medical with wheels on. He imagined the workers carting the bodies down here on gurneys, and interns racing each other down the hall on dilapidated wheelchairs. Most of the things were rusted and broken, but at least they meant he didn't have to walk the whole way out.

_Maybe that's better, more of a disguise than some random teenager in manky scrubs crawling out of the hospital doors._ He hoisted himself into one experimentally, feeling it creak as it took his weight. "Well this seems simple enough," It wasn't. Alex never needed a wheelchair before, even after his brief stints in hospital with various metallic items shot through his body, he'd always insisted on walking out. Or, at least to the taxi. Then Jack would help into the house where he'd spend another week with the curtains closed, living off soup and watching the whole _Friends_ box set with Jack.

It was harder than he expected. His arms weren't much better than his legs and he collided with several trolleys before he got to grips with the mechanics of the chair.

And then, footsteps.

_Shit._

He looked around: the corridor only had two exits- back to the mortuary room and, presumably, to the hospital. Alex was hidden from the chest down, behind a forest of jumbled and forgotten equipment in an extension of the corridor that was only 20 feet or so long.

_Shit, shit, shit!_

And then there was no time to think, or curse and Alex folded himself over in the wheelchair, so that only the top and handles of the chair could be seen over the hedge of junk.

Awfully aware of his low blood pressureand the resulting spinning in his head, he kept like that until the feet disappeared into the mortuary. _And now what? Stay? Or run-sorry, wheel- like Hell?_

In the end, his body made the decision for him, and he found himself cruising down the hall as fast as he dared. He was grateful that the mortuary door didn't have a window to see him whizzing past. However, his wheelchair had a crooked wheel and he was forced to spend precious seconds correcting his direction, lest he knock himself out against the wall. Another double door led him into a similar corridor, this time with a large lift at one end, and an ominous steel door at the other.

He wheeled himself over to the door quickly- there was nothing to hide himself behind this time- and pulled hopelessly at the pull-handle. Alex couldn't build the momentum so close to the door, so he wheeled himself an arm's length away and tried again. The result was the chair being pulled towards it. _Dammit! It's too heavy and...yup, no hand break on the chair. Shit. Maybe I could wedge a foot under the wheel..._

Designed, he relaxed in the chair and tried to go his options again.

In the distance, a slam.

Horrified, Alex turned to look into the direction he had come, as if he could see past the walls into the mortuary.

Footsteps, again. _This_ time, slapping against the floor. _This_ time because a body got gotten up and gone for a walk.

There was no time for anything else. It had to be _now_. He had to get out now before they locked down on the whole hospital.

Alex slammed himself against the door, winding both arms around the handle and levering his shaking legs against the frame. _Please, please..._

The door began to give, painfully slow, until the slamming in his ears was not his own pulse anymore, but the desperate feet just beyond the corridor door...

_Yes!_ It only opened a foot, but it was enough. Using the last of his resolve, Alex slipped out of the hospital and face- first onto the pavement of rainy London.

* * *

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," Breathed the pathologist, the curse powering every breath. _I'm sure- I'm double sure! The freaking kid was there this afternoon. I'm gonna lose my fucking job! _He gave a single growl of absolute disparity and frustration as he opened the second set of doors. Bodies don't get up and fucking walk!" He screamed to no-one, thumbing the call button for the lift desperately.

At which point, the exit door to the car park slammed , leaving a dilapidated wheelchair rolling slowly across the corridor, challenging him to disagree. The pathologist fainted.

* * *

This took a disgraceful ammount of time to write- I did the first 1.5k words straight after I wrote the first chapter and then my brain simply refused to give me the rest :( it's disgraceful, and I'm sorry to anyone who's faved/ reviewed/ watched this fic and had to wait so long ^^'

Anyway! Looks like this is gonna be a three- parter, so look out for number three, although I'm not gonna make any promises WHEN...I'll try my best to trick my brain into getting all creative on me :) I'm thinking.....Ian, since I promised he'd be in this chapter, and he blatently isn't- there was no room, I swear! Jonothan Grey has to have a part, too- he's my own little baby in this fic ^^

Feel free to totally make my day by R&Ring :3


	3. Part 3: Family Ties

**__****Everything Alex Rider-y belongs to Anthony Horowitz (jealous) but we love him for it :)**

**Family Ties**

It was raining in London again. Great rivets of murky water ran from the roof tiles of dilapidated flats, although it seemed to the occupants that the insides ended up more wet than the out. Two great beams of light pierced the murky dark as the car, all but invisible, parked against the curb. The occupant stepped out, the casual trainers and dirty jeans that only a twenty-something university student can wear. The young man frowned, the damned rain plastering his casually-messy hair to his eyes. This was the strangest delivery he'd ever made. Doing is best to shield his package from the worst of the weather, he approached the flats...

**Ian**

It happened about ten days after Alex's little escapade from the hospital. British Summer was in full swing now- that is to say, it was raining. I hadn't factored the weather in when I'd chosen our little flat, which was quite unfortunate as it seemed to be raining more on the inside.

But still...

At least we'd done it. We pulled it off, home dry, free to fly ...as soon as I'd sorted out this little matter of the death threat. The plan was to return 'home' to the South of France, a down- on- his- luck reporter and his estranged son. At least we looked alike enough for this to seem plausible.

Alex was being softly sick in the bathroom. It was unfortunate that the toxin tries to leave your body in a bit of a hurry, whether you want it to or not. He'd gained a week of sickness, but it also gave me time to lie low and plan ahead, our flight to France. I wasn't entirely sure if MI6 would be actively looking for him yet and I had precious little intelligence on the matter. I honestly didn't know what they'd make of his little disappearance act. What were they supposed to think? Had aliens kidnapped his corpse? May as well have, really- his body had simply vanished.

I turned the bouquet over in my hands. They were quite pretty, really. A little wet from the rain, maybe, but the black roses were tastefully arranged in a cubic, white porcelain vase. No name or message. I tried to think. There was only one person who sent this calling card, and he wasn't very friendly. So, were Scorpia involved in this?

I saw Alex shuffle into the kitchen in his baggy jogging pants and t-shirt, looking thoroughly tired and queasy, but better than he had yesterday. And tomorrow he would feel better, too. Which was just as well, as it looked like we didn't have as much time as I'd hoped. Leaving the roses outside the front door again, I joined my nephew in the kitchen. He wouldn't see them there- next time we left our little den, we'd be doing so through the back door.

**Johnothan Grey**

Rush hour.

SAS training. Endless psychological training and evaluation. The peak of my physical and mental wellbeing. I can estimate 3 hours perfectly to the last second, scale a wall four metres high and run for 10 miles without stopping. In other words, I am trained to be a Special Agent. A Special Agent who has, apparently, forgotten to factor in rush hour when trying to get to the airport.

"Shit, fucking, shit!" It seemed to cover the three areas of rottenness my luck had landed in. Could the day get any worse? It wasn't even as if I'd taken time off to relax- they'd twisted my arm, said that, maybe, I was overworking myself and needed a break. What I needed was to get back into the game, prove that I'm not some dumb fuck up who couldn't even keep an eye on one harmless teenager.

It was all about Alex Rider. How the hell was I supposed to know what had happened? I wasn't even supposed to know what he was involved in, but once you were working inside for the right kind of people, you...well, you hear things. And now I wasn't on the inside anymore. They wanted me away while they tried to clear things up and make sense of things. Grinding the butt of a finished cigarette against the door of my company car, I just hoped the guys who had handled his 'body' were getting half of the shit that had been thrown at me.

Even so, maybe two weeks' holiday in Amsterdam wasn't too bad. I wasn't getting paid for it, but Hell, I wasn't losing my job!

Alex fucking Rider.

**Alex**

So many things were making me feel queasy it was impossible to tell what in particular was making me feel ill this time. I felt as though I'd had the flu for the last two weeks and I still hadn't gotten over the shakes or headaches. Something told me Ian had downplayed the "day or two under the weather" he'd said I feel. I was going to kill him after all this was over.

When it was over, we were going to live in France. After we arrived at Amsterdam, we were going to take another detour to Germany, Poland and Denmark before France to shake off anyone who might be following us. I felt quite nostalgic at this- this was where I was suppose to have lived, once upon a time, before my life was dragged through the mangle when I was too young to even realise it. Maybe this was my second chance. Maybe now everything would turn out as it should have, except with Ian instead of John. Jack could even join us after we'd dropped off the radar. New lives. We'd already started on the first step of our journey; we'd gone into our squatter's digs as Alex and Ian Rider, but we were leaving it as Dean and Anthony Green. I was, of course, Dean. Dean Green. God, I could murder Ian sometimes, I really could.

It was time to go. But Dean Green wasn't blonde. Dean wore frameless square glasses and favoured baggy jeans and checked shirts. The scruffy trainers were the model's own. Dying my hair was the most painful thing. I ran a hand through it, messing it up against the headrest of the plane seat. I'd always secretly thought of my hair as my best feature, naturally blonde, fashionably cut. I'd definitely had a few admirers back at Brookland, although that had been before I'd been deemed as 'weird' ...

It was a muddy kind of brown. Totally not my look. Ian had also taken the scissors at various- and I suspected at random- points of my hair and chopped away. It fell in great clumps and I was left with a really bad haircut. Dean Green looked like a dork. I guess that meant I was a dork, then.

I looked around for Ian, our place in the middle of the isle giving me the perfect vantage point of the other passengers. No-one was paying us any attention, and for my bad haircut's sake, I was glad. Ian shimmied past a flight attendant to his seat beside me. Of course, Ian had been much kinder to his own new identity.

After living for more than a year as Anthony Green, he'd settled into his own black- dyed hair naturally, as if he'd always been that dark, instead of brown. He'd also cultivated a short crop of permanent stubble that made him look like he hadn't had access to a bathroom for a few days at least.

Satisfied that he was back in his seat, I relaxed again and tried to overcome the sickness that was drowning me. Despite constantly feeling the faint need to vomit, I'd also lost my appetite and felt dizzy if I stood for more than ten minutes at a time. Bright lights sent shooting pains through my eyes and I couldn't focus on a page to read anything at all. And, perhaps most seriously, I could not shake the deathly feeling that we were being followed.

**Johnothan Grey**

It's not as if the flight was even long. By some rare nugget of luck, I'd caught check-in, although I was the last passenger on the half- full plane. By the time I was seated, spent fifteen minutes looking through my carry-on luggage before remembering that it was a non-smoking flight and untangled my iPod headphones, the sun was low behind the window shade, and was bleeding into the horizon below. The air hostesses were dotted around the plane, serving the in-flight meal. I wasn't the only one feeling the weight of the day, and I could see their make-up melting from their carefully helpful expressions from where I sat.

Micro waved chicken Kiev and oven fries, barely warm. I stared at my meal. It might have stared back. I sighed. What a _shit_ day.

At least the plane wasn't crowed- I really couldn't have dealt with being crammed in with a hundred sweaty tourists- or worse, skinheads on a stag do. Urgh. At least the flight wasn't long, and just about an hour after take-off, I willed my legs out of their pins-and-needles to climb the stairs out of the plane, overnight bad slung over my shoulder. As everyone milled though the arrivals area to claim their luggage I was immensely glad the hotel was less than an hour away- I'd stayed there once before, and it was a cool little hotel. I quite liked the Dutch, really. Better than the shitty people I called my workmates back in London. Urgh. Work. Alex Rider.

How many times was I going to going to let that go round in my head? There's nothing I could have done! It was just so fucking _unfair_!

"_Excuse_ me," I shoved in roughly between the crowds at the revolving luggage belt. I didn't care about being rude; I'd already established to myself that I wasn't particularly fond of the English. The boy next to me frowned and almost fell onto his own bag as I reached to pick my own up. And as I leant down I saw the most fantastic thing. Beneath the dark hair and glasses, I could have sworn I'd just seen Alex Rider.

The day was settling into night in a brilliant red fashion that leaked red light through the floor to ceiling windows at Schiphol airport, Amsterdam, but this by no means closing time, and arrivals and departures were made much at the same pace as they had throughout the day. The hum was pleasing, thought the man in the grey suit as he cut through the crowds, he liked the anonymity of being part of a swarm, yet knowing he was so very different. Oh yes, there was only one of him at this airport. Or at least, there should be. He walked briskly past the airport shops, cafes and customer information kiosks and to the taxi ranks outside, as were many of the new arrivals. Certainly, two such people were, and he watched the teenager and his guardian load their suitcases into their taxi. Yes, the Gentleman was one of a kind, and was very good at what he did.

**Ian**

It was a nice hotel. I'd only been to Amsterdam on two occasions previously, both of those had been business. And in that line of business, you didn't take time to appreciate clean towels or prompt room service. After the very brief but tiring flight, and a little detour to a safe house where I'd stashed a few important items that the customs officers might not be overjoyed to find in your suitcase, we were glad to finally be able to relax. Or at least, I was; Alex had looked dead on his feet for the past hour.

As the hotel was in the deep the city, it was a typically Dutch building, meaning the rooms were narrow and the stairs steep. Despite this, our room had two spacious beds and a shower room. There was a phone on the TV table and large windows overlooked a busy high street. Alex had taken to his bed as soon as we arrived and I set to taking out the clothes we would need tomorrow. I didn't bother with much else- we were leaving in the morning, possibly the day after if Alex really needed to recuperate, for Berlin. Anyone casually looking in at us would see a father and son sightseeing in Europe. A sick son, that is. Alex slept like the dead, his chest barely rising as he breathed. I spread the quilt from my bed on top of him and took off his ragged trainers. I threw them into the corner of the room by their laces, not really wanting to touch them on more than the lace. I mean, how long had he had them? I was almost sure I'd seen him wearing the same ones before I'd broken away from MI6. Tch, teenagers! Despite his taste in footwear, I was surprised how much he'd grown in one short year. I could see clearly that his jaw was defining, and his voice had broken some time ago. He's lost a significant amount of baby fat and he'd built muscle, too, and in a year or two more he would resemble an athlete more than a schoolboy. _How much have I missed?_

I drew the blinds across the window, sensing the dark closing in around the room. Across from the hotel, in Holland's narrow streets the windows were dark. At street level, the pavement writhed with activity, cafes and bars draped with fairy lights and hanging lamps. The tourists were slowly being phased out by revellers and drinkers, groups on Stag and Hen dos.

I couldn't place my bad feeling. It isn't something you can identify or learn, but it's something MI6 look for in an agent. It gnawed at me, and I closed the curtains again. I thought through our journey. Had we been spotted? Had anyone indicated any recognition? The image of a dozen black roses in their porcelain vase danced in my mind and my teeth ground together. _Shit!_

"Alex," I put my hand to his forehead. He was burning up. He opened his eyes reluctantly. "The restaurant's open now, are you coming down?" He shook his head, closing his eyes again and turning over onto his side. "I'll bring you something up, then. You'll be hungry later."

He didn't answer as I slipped on my jacket again, already under the cloud of sleep again. I locked the hotel door- number 12- behind me and started down the short hallway, not entirely sure what I was looking for. My left hand stabbed the call lift button, my right hand in my jacket pocket, against the cold butt of my Smith & Wesson Semi Automatic Pistol. I wasn't sure what my instincts were leading me to, and I wasn't positive why I felt I need to bring it with me. I was only hoping I wouldn't need to use it.

Below, the lights blazed, throwing my surroundings into sharp, contrasting black and neon brightness. Beside me, a window was open a token and the thumping beat of a radio reached me, even on the seventh floor. If I inhaled deeply I could smell...yes, steak. Of course, the floor below me belonged to a restaurant. It was deliciously cooked, by the smell of it. I decided I would have steak tonight, though not from the same restaurant; it wasn't my habit to mix business with pleasure. Besides, close to the city centre, the streets were a network of cafes, bars, souvenir shops, delicatessens and hotels. One such hotel occupied the building opposite. It was quite charming, really, three or four old towering Dutch houses knocked through and converted into a quaint and unassuming hotel, and like many of its fellows, deceptively large.

There was no hurry. My hands worked lovingly over my tools, assembling the bipod first and then the 2005 Bolt- Action Arctic Warfare, an old friend of mine, itself. I adjusted the telescopic sight lovingly, sweeping over the windows of the hotel opposite once this was done. I waited.

**Johnothan**

It was too good to be true. It was craziness. I was going mad, I was imagining things and – and I was going to get a promotion! This cheered me up considerably as I rattled off the Amazon wish list I had made to myself in my head. Pay rises were good. I _liked_ pay rises.

Of course it was the same kid- that was the one thing I was absolutely certain of. The shape of his jaw from the side, the pattern his hair and how it flicked off to the left, his careful gait. Yes, it was definitely Alex Rider under the hair dye and theatrical glasses.

The lift hummed upwards in a clunky way that worried me about its safety- but I had other things occupying my thoughts- I could put down the deposit on that new flat! Then there was that overdraft hanging over for me since forever... and all I had to do was hand Alex Rider back over to MI6. It had been ridiculously easy to tail them to their room- 12. Oh _yes_, everything was coming up Johnothan Grey!

The door opened. A middle-aged dark haired, well- build man entered, hand in pocket. The same one accompanying him through Schiphol airport. Mechanically, I left the lift, hardly believing my luck. Of course the Rider kid hadn't been alone, and it was only sheer luck that he'd been leaving the room when I wanted to storm it. Get your shit together, Grey! I mentally shook myself, trying to get into the role of a child kidnapper. Wait- no, I was aiding in the capture of a dangerous and seriously freaking hard to find fugitive! And I, Johnothan Grey, was going to be the one to march him into Liverpool Street to the sighs of relief and approval of my superiors. And the day had started so badly! I felt like laughing, and I allowed myself one ironic chortle before I approached the accusing room number. I was on fire.

Problem. MI6 weren't too keen on letting their staff trot off on holiday with handguns and the suchlike, so how was I going to tackle this? I weighed the options in my head, wishing I'd considered this earlier. _Weee-eell,_I thought, _He didn't look too healthy at the airport. He's just a kid...it wouldn't take too much to overwhelm him. _A decision made, I braced myself before room 12. I gave myself 15 minutes max before I expected that guy- his body guard or whatever; I hadn't thought much about him, either- came back.

_Ready or not..._

**Alex**

Under the covers, my head thumped maliciously. I couldn't sleep anymore, and the stream of bass drifting from streets below didn't help much. Mind you, neither did the door being broken down by an MI6 agent. Fortunately, the guy didn't seem like he'd broken down many hotel doors in his lifetime in the business, and it took three head- shatteringly loud kicks to smash the lock and swing wide. I was on the floor before the second, some primitive urge overriding the sickness.

The foot-tall gap between the bed and carpet didn't reveal much, except that the agent hadn't bothered to match his socks. One had Homer Simpson on it. Which I found kind of strange for an assassin or agent, but not particularly important right now. He took a second to recover, before tearing open the door to the en suit; evidently, he expected someone to be home. I realized he would have spotted the unmade bed, and I groaned inwardly.

He would be find me in a heartbeat, and my options flashed through me. Bathroom window, corridor- the French windows! The windows opened onto a three foot- wide mini balcony over the street. I chewed this over, remembering that we were six stories up. Well, I would deal with that when I need to. Before he had finished tearing down the shower curtain, I was poised on all fours, and sprang towards the French windows, my hands tearing at the curtains, betraying the light of the hotel room to the dark night-

-fifteen metres away a figure, draped gracefully over his rifle, curled his finger around the trigger, caressing it, before he pulled-

White hot pain sliced my forearm and I recoiled from the window, my stomach sickened with shock. So he had back-up, after all. The corridor and bathroom window were probably covered, too. How many men were on their way up now, I wondered? It was all over. I'd been lucky, though, and the shot had only grazed me, instead shattering the TV behind me. At the sound of the small explosion, the agent tore back into the hotel room. What could I do? I expected him to be armed. Instead, he was dishevelled, sweating, and raising his fists before him whilst crouching down as if he was going to spring on me. I bolted.

He slammed into my shoulder, crashing into the floor on top of me as a whistling indicated the secret sniper was still firing. What the hell? The sniper could have hit his own guy! I grappled with him, trying for leverage to breathe. He was so heavy, and I was still weak. Why was this always the way? Just _once_ I wanted the guy I fought to be 5'1" with a bad leg spasm, or something.

Red blood dripped onto my face and I twisted away from it, beating against my assailant. He smashed his fist into my cheekbone and grabbed handfuls of my hair, smashing my head against the floor, kneeling on my chest and constricting my lungs. My head spun, dark patches blooming in my vision, I was going under...

He twisted me round, my arms nearly dislocating in their sockets until he had me pinned to the hotel room floor, arms twisted up painfully behind my back. In the reflection of the broken TV, I saw him freeze, one hand raised to his cheek where fresh blood welled.

Another shot whistled past.

"Shit!" Suddenly the pressure was released from my arms and I rolled away, trying to get upright and away from.

"For fuck's sake, get DOWN!" He seemed to enjoy going for my hair, and to my dismay, he used another handful to slam me back down to the floor. Not prepared for this, I coughed and tried to catch my breath, almost being sick in the process. I was dragged across to the wall adjacent to the window and out of range of the sniper.

What? Wasn't the sniper with my attacker? My head ached fiercely.

"What the fuck?" I croaked, trying to claw at his face. I managed to clip his jaw with a left hook and he punched me in my stomach, very nearly making me vomit again. I curled into a ball, preparing for the worst. But he didn't hit me again, simply flattening himself against the wall, as if listening for another shot. "And who the hell are you?" I spat, utterly spent.

He looked at me loathingly. "You can call me Johnothan Grey, Alex. And I'm taking you back to MI6."

"Oh fuck."

He nodded in the direction of the window, "Is that your friend out there?"

I shook my head, realizing that meant Ian. I wished so fiercely for Ian just then; where _was_ he? Johnothan seemed to think for a moment, weighing his options, no doubt. A long gash along his cheek was providing the carpet with a complimentary pattern of creative blood splashes. Huh, so the sniper wasn't working with him, either. That was very interesting.

And then the dark cloud of understanding settled on me.

"The Gentleman," I moaned, trying to staunch the blood on my forearm with my shirt. Johnothan was undoubtedly an MI6 agent, for his face was one of complete and horrific dawning.

I remembered the flat Ian and I had squatted in before we fled to Amsterdam. Waking early before Ian one morning, I had rushed outside to vomit since the sink wasn't plumbed in. It was only when I was picking himself up from the doorstep that I saw the curious black roses. Now I understood what we were fleeing from ...

"I thought he was supposed to be in Iraq...fucking hell..." By the look of Johnothan, he didn't know what to do, either.

"He sent us...his calling card...we should have been more careful" I was horrified to find I was almost crying. Was this it? A rock and a hard place, indeed- so unfair!

"Black roses? You must know a bit about him. He won't give up now; I've heard he's never failed an assignment. He used to be an agent, you know,"

"Really?" I'd never heard that before.

"He defected about 14 or 15 years ago...he must be getting on a bit now. You don't think we could convince him to retire, do you?" He laughed harshly, trying to make the best of a bad situation, I guessed. But I didn't laugh with him. I was mentally urging him on, something within me stirring dread.

"Why?"

"Oh I don't know. Maybe the other side pays better? Faked his death in a plane crash from what I've heard."

"What was his name?" My voice was hollow.

"His name? Jim. Wait. No, John." He looked at me, eyes dark with realisation. "John Rider."

* * *

Phew! honestly sorry I took so long this time, I didn't mean to. Half- written on a college trip to Manchester, and half on a totally crazy caffine rush about 2 months ago. Edited about 5 to 7 am tody so there may still be a few gremlins- I'll be weeding those out in the next few days. I really need to stop making Alex so sorry- looking! :D Next chapter I promise he'll go all bad- ass :D

PS it could have been set anywhere, really, but I've been to Amsterdam and it's a totally lovely place, so if you ever get the chance to go, go!

PPS Hope the penname switcheroo didn't confise you if you've been following me/ the story ^^' I'm also considering renaming the whole fic to 'Family Ties' so watch out if you get an update alert from that...

PPPS (I can do that!) Thanks for the Win reviews- especially Maekitt :D


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